i8 2 THE MICROSCOPE. 



much cheap and heartless wit about the physician, but get sick and 

 how quickly you send for him. Some say doctors are of more harm 

 than good, and there is a book written entitled " Every Man His 

 Own Doctor." That author ought to write one more book and 

 entitle it " Every Man His Own Undertaker." Do you think physi- 

 cians are hard-hearted because they see so much pain? Ah, no! 

 The most eminent surgeon of the last generation in New York came 

 into the clinical department of the New York Medical College when, 

 there was a severe operation to be performed upon a little child. 

 The great surgeon said to the students gathered around: "Gentle- 

 men, there are surgeons here who can do this just as well as I can. 

 You will excuse me, therefore, if I retire. I cannot endure the sight 

 of suffering as well as I once could." There are so many trials, so 

 many interruptions, so many exhaustions in a physician's life that I 

 rejoice he gets so many encouragements. Before him open all 

 circles of society. He is welcomed in cot and mansion. Children 

 shout when they see his gig coming, and old men, recognizing his 

 step, look up and say: "Doctor, is that you?" He stands between 

 our families and the grave, fighting back the disorders that troop up 

 from their encampments by the cold river. No one ever hears such 

 hearty thanks as the doctor. Under God he makes the blind see, 

 the deaf hear, the lame walk. The path of such is strewed with the 

 benedictions of those whom they have befriended. Perhaps there 

 was in our house an evil hour of foreboding. We thought that all 

 hope was gone. The doctor came four times that day. The chil- 

 dren put aside their toys. We walked on tip-toe and whispered, and 

 at every sound said, "hush!" -How loud the clock ticked, and, with 

 all our care, the banister creaked. The doctor stayed all night and 

 concentrated all his skill. At last the restlessness of the sufferer 

 subsided into a sweet, calm slumber, and the doctor looked around 

 to us and whispered: "The crisis is past." When propped up with 

 pillows the sick one sat in the easy chair, and through the lattice the 

 soft south wind tried hard to blow a rose-leaf into the shaded cheek; 

 and we were all glad, and each of the children brought a violet or a 

 clover-top from the lawn to the lap of the convalescent, and little 

 Bertha stood on a high chair with the brush smoothing her mother's 

 hair, and it was decided that the restored one might soon ride out 

 for a mile or two, our house was bright again. And, as we helped 

 our medical adviser into the gig, we saw not that the step was broken 



